Come Down
by Feral Phoenix
Summary: An empty vial. A night of agony. And a side to Ledah that you never thought could exist. Twoshot, rated for language, drug use, and other mature content.
1. Come Down

Come Down

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Riviera, and my conscious mind at least doesn't own this story. Maybe my subconscious does, but who in the world knows what goes on in there… after having this bizarre dream, I decided to write it down to further explore this interesting (though to some extents disturbing) potential side to Ledah…

NOTICE: Though explicit discussion of drug abuse makes up a large part of this story, the author DOES NOT condone any form of drug usage that is not for medical purposes. Drugs are bad for you. Taking illegal drugs is like eating rocks. Don't eat rocks, rocks are bad.

It's only times like these—the blind sadistic nights—the sickness, the nausea, and the shame—that I wonder why the fuck I do this to myself.

Any other time, I don't bother questioning. I know why, and I know I pretty much didn't have any other choice. Ask me at any other time, and I will give you that look, if not actually _say, _"Are you stupid? You try a few nights of having your fuckhead old man put his ugly dick up your ass, and _then _tell me you can't sympathize."

Any other time, I'm not shaking and feverish and sweaty and ranging around the room hoping to the gods I've all but abandoned that I'll be able to make it to the toilet if I really do throw up. It's always the worst when you're coming down off a high. You're desperate, but the stoners who got me started were kind enough to warn me that coming down is the absolute _worst_ time to shoot up. They all knew people who'd died from it, because it's still in you while it's leaving you and another dose could make you OD.

It's a little pathetic, really. What are we—the S-triple-A, Safe Antidote Addicts of Asgard? But I've always managed to resist. I've always ridden through the hell of dropping off.

Antidote—weird name for a drug, right? It comes from the way it's made. Two drams of heroin, mixed into the strongest available store-bought antidotes against monster poison. You wouldn't think that something so damn simple would have such a dramatic effect, but the chemicals that make the antidotes work have a catalytic effect on the heroin itself. It changes it—turns it into the superdrug that's so in vogue right now, or at least among the junkies crazy enough to try it. Antidote is the hardest, most addictive thing on the street.

The reason people use, though, is the sense of detachment from the world that comes with the intense waking dreams—the hallucinations—that begin a little after your system absorbs the drug. Sure, there's also all the feel-good shit that makes everyone else take everything else, but Antidote addicts could get that with the other users, taking whatever they're stoned on.

Or at least that's what makes me use. What made me start. It was a detachment I needed to survive. That's what I was—still am—addicted to.

But then again, maybe that addiction and the reason I started make me a breed apart from this city's other druggies.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

My name is Ledah Rozwelli, and I've been addicted to Antidote for almost eight years now.

---

The first time my father came into my room at night, I'd barely turned fourteen. I was young, naïve, submissive, and utterly terrified. Realizing his intentions, I'd tried to run. He caught me. And he raped me.

The same kind of thing kept happening for about two years.

I know, I know—I should have told someone, shouldn't have let it happen like I did, shouldn't have given up. But the truth is, the only person I could've told was seven years old and had no idea what "rape" even was. Certainly I couldn't expect help from my mother; for all I knew she was the one who put him up to it.

So I tried to live with it and couldn't.

That's where the fine, silky latticework of pinkish brown scars all up and down the white insides of my armsare from, by the way. I was going through hell—no shit, Sherlock—and at that time, making myself bleed… giving myself at least that much control, and another pain to focus on… was all I could think of doing to cope.

The day after I turned sixteen, I ran into a group of my soon-to-be-fellow stoners on the library steps. They were sober (for once) and noticed how bad I looked, asking me if I was alright. Aside from the then nine-year-old Ein, they were the only ones who'd noticed or cared that there was something wrong.

I didn't know what to tell them but the truth.

They were a lot more sympathetic than you would expect for users—I guess that social stereotype stuck with me too, even though I should've known better. They told me that I'd had the look of a victim for a while.

And though they initially recommended against it, they offered in—as a way to dull the pain.

They got me started, set me up so that I would have enough for a few months, gave me fresh needles and showed me the best places to shoot. My arms were already so scarred that they were out of the question; I've always found that injecting the Antidote high up in the thigh, right up to my groin, tends to give a stronger rush. I have dark burn scars there, though they're hidden from others' view.

After that first time, I stopped cutting altogether and never settled down to "sleep" without being stoned.

Well… almost never.

I've always wondered who it was that tipped the Magi off—one of my stoner "buddies" or someone else—but on the same night I forgot to shoot up for the first time, they appeared at our house just as I was starting to scream from the pain and my father was threatening me with a gag. They handed me over to Samael, their healer, as the rest of them dealt with my parents.

I wasn't stoned, so there was nothing Samael could really do but patch up my immediate injuries. But before I was sent off to stay with Ein, he took me aside and this is what he said to me:

"You're fine right now, but you've got some really bad shit in your system, Rozwelli. Now I won't ask you where you got it or who gave it to you, and I know that this is probably going to fall on deaf ears, but I'm obligated to warn you: This drug is going to take everything you have; it's going to destroy everything you are. You'll have nothing left but the high; the drug will reduce you to absolute oblivion. And when you come down from that high, you'll come down hard. When that time comes, I can help purge the days, months, or years of abuse from your body. But you have to _want _it. If you need my help, I will give it freely. You must remember that."

And I do remember. I remember times like now, when I feel like dying.

Why didn't I just stop using after the Magi sentenced my parents? The truth was, now that I had that sense of security, I was afraid to face the night without it.

So I still shoot up every night, like clockwork.

Besides, Antidote is by no means all bad.

For one thing, there're the dreams.

The waking dreams of Antidote reflect your deepest inner fantasies.

For instance, it feels like I've known forever that I am gayer than the day is long. That in itself does not bother me. The fact that most people I know are straight, including the person I love, hurts a little.

Ein is sixteen now, and everyone has to admit he's grown up well. I don't think that's the best way of putting it—trying to read anything makes my head hurt nowadays—but how can I possibly explain the way his shoulders fill out his clothes, the naïve beauty in his eyes, the rough rapture I always get, staring at the bare nape of his neck… or how good and kind he's always been to me, even though I'm like this?

When everyone else deserted me, Ein stayed right at my side. He knows about my drugs, has probably seen where I keep my stash—and he doesn't seem to mind. He's had every opportunity to cast me off, but the days and months pass and nothing he does makes me think for a moment that he's any more than slightly disappointed in me.

I'm hopelessly in love with him, but he's too good for me. And besides, I'm almost certain he's straight. At the very least (what I wouldn't give to hope), he's bisexual—he's lusted after too many girls to be entirely gay.

Why is all this pertinent? Because Antidote helps me live out the wishes I've had for so long that the torment is hardly bearable in the day. I call them "waking dreams" because they seem far too _real _to be hallucinations, though you know that they're only a product of your drug-enhanced imagination. They're so vivid that you can actually _feel _everything happening to you, like you never could in a normal dream.

And in those dreams, I can be with Ein.

More than "be".

The moment the real world starts to haze around me has been the high point of so many days—and my heart cries out with the love I've been unable to fulfill.

Every day my body aches for his touch. And even though I _know _it isn't real, the feel of his hands on every sensitive place… the touch of his lips against mine… The illusion—it is an illusion, however vivid—of lovemaking is infinitely better than nothing at all.

Antidote gives me that when nothing else can.

So it's only these times of sickness that make me curse myself for even talking to that little clutch of stoners on the steps, no matter how good they tried to be to me. Knowing that they meant well does nothing for the wicked clasp of mingled pain and nausea in my belly.

Which twists and tightens even now, making me gasp, cover my mouth with my too-bony hand, and dive for the bathroom.

I'm sick. Very sick. Throwing up seems to take a disproportionate amount of energy to what it should—I can't sit up, but am left collapsed in this awkward position, with my legs bent and folded alongside me, my right arm and hand splayed out to keep me balanced.

Looking into the full-length mirror on the wall, I stare bleakly at the wretched thing I have become.

My blonde hair is disheveled and dirty, hanging into a face that has become wan and sickly over the years. My skin is too pale, with gray streaks below my dull and haunted-seeming eyes. I've lost weight and my cheeks seem hollow, but partially because of the drugs and also the waking dreams with them, my lips are still swollen and roseate, which lends a strange incongruity to my image. The light is faint, and sickly shadows slide over my ribs, which stand out slightly against my sides. I could never have called myself truly "solid", but before I started Antidote I wasn't such a weak wisp of a thing either. I may have height, but my mirror-twin looks too lanky, with his bony frame showing painfully through his skin. The feathers of his wings look greasy and lusterless, though he still bathes with some frequency.

He looks—I look—lost and hopeless.

My stomach seizes, and I lurch back toward the toilet, barely making it in time to keep from soiling the floor.

There are only two things I really hate the taste of: One is semen—I can't stand its bitterness—and the other is the thick and acrid backwash of peptic acid that hovers in the back of your throat after you vomit.

I swallow and wince and edge away from my shame. My throat feels raw and the sour acid won't seem to go away. I sense the tears start to rise in my eyes and close them quickly, pushing them back with a sigh.

My heart jumps a little as soft hands pull back my hair from my face.

"Calm down… it's only me."

I relax and lean back into Ein's caress as he gently cleans my face with a soft cloth.

He pulls me close to lean against his chest, loosely putting his arms around me. Leaning his cheek against my forehead, he speaks softly to me.

"It's four in the morning. Why are you still up?"

I don't answer.

"Shooting again?" he asks, gentle and concerned, in the way that makes my heart flop over. And makes me hate myself.

"You saw the empty vial on the counter. You know already." I want to sound irritated but my voice is just as tired as the rest of me, and my words sound flat. I don't bother to move—violation of my "manly pride" it may be, but I love it when Ein babies me.

"It's wearing off more quickly," Ein observes. Both of us know that my body will keep getting more and more resistant to Antidote's effects until the dose I'll need to get high will be really dangerous to my system. I don't like to think about it. Knowing this, he changes the subject. "Let's get you to bed, then. I'll clean up here, so don't worry about it. Just rest."

Ein helps me up and we walk into our bedroom. The cot I usually insist on sleeping in is a mess, with its sheets still soaked in my sweat and the climax I reached before the drug wore off, and Ein steers me away from it to the big double bed he uses. My chest lurches and my skin feels achy and burned where his arm is tightly wrapped around my waist, supporting me. If I wasn't in such a pathetic state, this kind of thing would really turn me on, but right now I feel too ill even to get aroused.

"What if I'm sick again?" I ask as he sits me down.

"I'll take care of it; stop being so fussy and lay down. You're in a bad way, Ledah, so just take it easy until you start feeling better."

He won't take no for an answer, and very gently pushes me into the blankets. I lie back when he does—I'm too tired to actively resist.

"I'll bring you a glass of water when I come back in," he promises softly, giving my hair a last stroke before he pulls the sheets over me. "Just stay awake until then, okay?"

He doesn't wait for me to answer, but walks back off without any signs of displeasure at having to clean up another of my messes. I sigh, turn over in his bed and feel the sheets sliding against my bare skin, and wonder what in the hell kind of obligation he thinks he has towards me.

Ein is the Magi's little golden boy; he's something like I used to be, before my father and the drugs. He's smart, a dedicated student, and will probably be asked to enter the guard of the citadel sooner or later due to his blossoming fighting skills. He's always been a good child, and taking care of someone like me can only be holding him back.

I don't understand it, not really.

Distantly, I hear the water running, then the noisy whirl of the toilet being flushed. A few seconds later, Ein is back, with a cup in his hands.

He sits next to me and holds it out. "Drink _slowly," _he reminds me. I do. It's cold and pure, relief against that disgusting acid taste still in the back of my mouth.

Ein walks around to the other side of the bed and gets in as I set the glass down. He scoots right up to me, puts his arms around me, and gently pulls me against his chest. I lie still, enjoying the moment and the warmth of his touch as much as I still can in my state.

But when Ein speaks, there's a catch in his voice that makes my heart ache.

"Oh, Ledah… why do you _do _this to yourself?"

I can't answer, though his words are like a knife in my chest.

He knows already, anyway.

This is what I am now…

:TBC:


	2. Come Clean

Come Clean

See disclaimer in part one (Come Down)

Ledah is finally asleep.

It's taken him a while to settle down; it usually does when he's not easing off or into the peak of a high. But he's curled up against me, clinging almost childishly, his breathing soft and even, his lips parted just slightly. He looks… _peaceful _is the word I want to use, but that's not true. _Haggard _is a lot more accurate, _hounded _perhapsa bit truer. He's definitely sickly, but that's more because of his reaction to his drugs than anything else. But he just looks so tired, even asleep.

I pray that he'll be able to forgive me for what I'm about to do to him.

What I'm _already _doing to him.

I've talked to Samael a lot recently. I really do worry about Ledah, and he's really the only one I can turn to. He's told me that in Ledah's condition, increasing the dosage of a shot of Antidote just enough to get high will soon become fatal. He's not eating properly and doesn't get nearly enough sleep, and he's let his health fall completely by the wayside along with everything else. His enslavement to addiction has weakened him, and with his rising tolerance to Antidote…

I can't let it happen.

Samael has told me he'll help me if I need it, but I want to do this on my own, or at least try to as long as I can. He's already done so much—helped me learn about detox and the things I'll need—that I'd feel ashamed taking any more assistance.

Besides, I feel a little responsible for letting it get this bad.

Ledah's needed someone to take care of him all these years, but I wonder sometimes if I haven't been a little _too _accepting of his habits. Choosing between his life and his gratitude is easy now, but maybe I could've kept it from going on this long if I'd put my foot down earlier. Maybe I have just been enabling him, like Samael keeps hinting. But it's so hard to want to do something that'll hurt him, even though it's for his own good…

Quitting a drug cold turkey is never easy. Antidote is so addictive and powerful that withdrawal can start hours after a long-term addict misses a dose. I think Ledah's a little afraid of the near-literal hell he'll go through if he ever decides to quit.

But I can't let this go on any longer.

I've lived with Ledah long enough that I know exactly where he hides his drugs, his needles, and everything else he uses. Only a few hours ago—when I knew he was lying still and as asleep as he is right now—did I dare to sneak out; I was afraid he'd find me. But I did it—I cleaned it all out and disposed of everything.

I've already warned the other Antidote stoners that no matter what happens, none of them are to give Ledah another fix. Just in case, I've already gotten permission from Samael, Celina, and the others to quit my schooling for a while—a few months at the shortest, even years if that's what needs to happen. I'll stay with him, help him ride it off, keep him from sneaking out and getting himself drugged up again.

If Ledah keeps this on, he'll kill himself. He has to stop, even if that means I have to intervene against his will.

He shifts and moans softly as he sleeps in my arms. My heart aching, I lean forward to kiss his forehead, murmuring whatever I can think of to soothe him back into sleep. He's such a restless sleeper lately, and he seems like he's made out of porcelain, so fragile that a single touch could break him.

It wasn't just his virginity that Ledah lost ten years ago. I know that he would never be like this if his father hadn't done those things to him. Even though his parents beat him, he was different back then… stronger. He didn't just give in to things right away; he still had that spark left, that spirit that put him on the pedestal of my child's idolatry. The rape just took all the fight out of him, until he was ready to do anything just to free himself from that pain and shame.

I didn't understand all of this back then, but I knew it all the same.

Ledah's the child in this relationship now, the dependent. He acts more like a dispassionate, disillusioned doll than the man he should be, my classmate and my tutor as he once was.

I want that Ledah back. Even though I know it's hard to reclaim what once was, I want him back. And if Ledah were asked about it—if he were completely sober and in his normal rational mind—I think he would agree, too.

But it's going to be so hard.

Worse than his childish dependence are the looks he gives me when he doesn't think I'm paying attention. Those sad, hopeless, hangdog stares, depressed and almost tearful, aching with longing and shame… their meaning is quite plain to me, and they're painful even to look at. They're just so completely soulful, so truthful… and the look on his face is always, "I need you. I need you, but I'm not good enough for you. I'm not good enough and I never will be."

Maybe it's arrogant of me. But I can't stand it. I have to save him.

Please, Ledah, don't hate me for the pain I'm going to put you through.

I'll be there with you. You'll scream and curse at me, you'll try to escape. I'll try to be strong enough to withstand it, strong enough for both of us. I'll hold you when you shake with the fever of withdrawal, and when you're feeling better I'll whisper all the sweet insubstantial promises you want as you sleep.

I only want what'll be best for you.

Gods, forgive me. I can't help but feel this way.

You're good enough for me.

So please… forgive me for this, Ledah.

I pray that once you come clean, you'll understand.

:owari:


End file.
